


Talk Show On Mute

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Depressing, Horrifying, M/M, Not Funny, Prose Poem, Screwy format, Sehnsucht Era, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not tragic. [Paul/Richard, Sehnsucht era, free verse. Warnings inside.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Show On Mute

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives or political stance in this story.
> 
> Warnings: Paul/Richard. Depressing, vaguely unnerving, not very comprehensible. Political overtones. Terrible quality because Kimbk is not a poet. Potential spoilers as this is an adaptation of a music video. Set just after Sehnsucht.

******Talk Show On Mute - A Rammstein Poem**  
  
\---------------------------------  
  
We six members of Rammstein are the best of friends. A single unit. A group.  
  
[Ring-o, ring-o roses; a pocketful of posies-]  
  
We've all been through a lot in our time  
But the year is 1997 and reunification happened seven years ago  
And seven years is a bloody long time, I tell you.  
  
We're all good men.  
I have a friend too in the same band and he's a good man too, he's the one I want to talk about.   
  
But well, he  
  
  
  
scares me.  
  
  
He's very handsome and girls drool over him. And some men, too.  
Very talented too, a true world-class lead guitarist. He's  
very fond of me. Says often that he likes playing onstage with me  
that I'm the best person he could think of when it comes to being in tune with each other.  
  
A beautiful compliment. He doesn't hand out many compliments but when he does, they're sincere.  
  
I think girls annoy him though sometimes.  
But recently he's been annoyed by _everything._  
  
  
I remember a boy. Three years my junior with blond hair and blue eyes and a hard-set mouth, sharp features, one who brooded silently in a corner and yet always looked at you straight in the eye when you were talking to him and never flinched and never lied. He was beautiful. Despite his no-nonsense attitude he was actually a dreamer, illustrious, filled with the most beautiful ideas and pictures. His hair got darker and he became older, well we became older, but that never changed, his dreams that could (would and eventually _did_ ) involve me.  
  
That boy, oh that boy  
I _loved_ him  
I _**love**_ him  
  
so, so very much  
  
  
  
(he loves me he loves me not he loves me  
don't ever play that game with dandelions)  
  
  
Enough for it to hurt.  
  
  
  
  
I used to live in fear of being arrested.  
I don't anymore, usually. East was hell.  
  
But sometimes I look at life nowadays and wonder if it's really that different.  
And I don't mean socialism is _wrong_  
Or that socialism is _right_ but  
  
(I'm East German.)  
  
But we six became a band under Richard and Till's co-founding rule.  
Reunification made that so much easier.  
  
Freedom of expression.  
  
Till loves that, Richard loves that too, did you know  
that he wrote 'Engel' by himself?  
Well, he did. Beautifully too. Till's voice just makes it better.  
  
  
But Richard doesn't know when to pause.  
And the most minor clogging of the gears makes him het up.  
So he works and thinks and thinks and works  
and looks at me with his icy blues (my god what a cliche)  
  
and tells me:  
Paul, Engel, I love you  
Engel, we're going to hell   
in a handbasket.  
  
  
  
  
  
[ _Ich hasse dich._ ]  
  
  
We perform mostly in bars though we are slowly gaining a lot of fame  
People don't always think good of us though.  
But that's to be expected. They don't know us that well.  
  
They can't know that:  
Till loves gummy bears and sweets  
Richard loves to spoil his daughter  
I cook often and very well for others  
Flake has two little birds who are his joy in life  
Olli likes to develop photos while listening to Brahms  
Doom likes to dress pretty.  
  
[ _Du hasst mich? Du **hasst** mich? Oder du **hast** mich? 'Hast' - oder 'hasst'? Was ist es, Richard?_ ]  
  
So we keep going, sing our hearts out, play with all our love  
Smile at the audience (that's very important, smiles)  
  
Even though sometimes  
the _Third Reich_ in the form of a drunk anti-fascist with a bottle  
pays us a little visit  
shouts at us  
laughs and screams to us  
  
  
(keep singing  
you can play and dance and sing and pretend all you want  
but   
_**I'M NOT GOING FUCKING ANYWHERE**_ )  
  
  
  
[ _Ja, hasse, ich hasse dich. Ja. Ja._ ]  
  
It bothers him.   
  
It's really bothering me that it bothers him  
And I don't mean that Richard was better off _before_  
Or that he _needs_ to take a break in a quiet place but  
  
(He's East German too.)  
  
  
  
[ _Du bist ein Berliner;_ he was happier behind the wall.]  
  
Pretend that it's a talkshow on mute  
Everyone is mouthing along and the music drowns them out  
And we can think to ourselves, they're saying that they love us.  
  
  
Freedom is not something I can argue with  
Sure, I do miss the simpler days  
Flake has it very badly in particular  
But we are much, much better off here. Nothing doing. Carry on.  
  
Though admittedly I do get nightmares  
Wake up in my own cold sweat tangled  
between the soft white clean sheets  
(never had them in East Berlin)  
and I hear the cuckoo clock ticking   
only that it sounds like a knock  
  
Tick tock  
Cuckoo cuckoo  
  
 **Paul  
Paul**  
(knock knock)  
 **come out and play**  
Paul   
Paul  
 **(knock knock)**  
(all the live long day)  
  
Cuckoo cuckoo  
Tick tock  
  
And then I think oh my **god**  
oh no no no no no **oh no**   
me and Flake are under arrest  
(illegal sale of cloth jackets / making noise)  
the Stasi are knocking on the door  
  
 **and they're coming to take me away**  
  
ha ha.  
  
  
Though it's just a delusion I know, I don't even have a cuckoo clock.  
  
  
  
  
[burning burning burning we all wear masks]  
  
  
  
 _Symptoms:_ not eating, not sleeping, not speaking, no libido, not drinking, playing guitar until fingers torn and bleeding, in despair, wants to die.  
  
 _Prescribed:_ Sertraline 50mg  
Severe anxiety; shaking hands; anorexia; discontinued after patient found making nooses with bootlace  
  
 _Prescribed:_ Prozac 40mg (twice the usual dose)  
Insomnia; homicidal thoughts; erectile dysfunction; weight loss; woke up in a pool of vomit and spat 'sleep with dogs and rise with fleas'; urge to murder rising _rising **rising**_  
  
 _Mood:_ **fucking angry**  
 _State:_ **fucking depressed**  
  
 _It's  
all  
very  
worrying._  
  
  
He wasn't like that two weeks ago though, I think the Black Forest Cake helped.  
I baked one for him and he got to it with a lot of gusto and we went out to a bar.  
First time we went to a bar to just talk and be friends in a long while.  
  
Our music was playing. Kind of surreal listening to it there actually.  
  
[will you, until death comes, be true to him for all of your days?]  
  
Then he leaned over to me and whispered in my ear:  
'ididntmeanwhatisaidabouthatingyouorhavingyouorwhatever  
let's fuck.'  
  
 _Prescribed:_ Paul [REDACTED], 80kg  
Co-operative; didn't scream; didn't bleed; bit into pillow; calmer; slept well.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But he did mean it kind of I think.  
Of course he  
 _had_ me  
 _has_ me  
 _will have_ me  
 _will always have_ me  
forever and ever.  
He just can't see it because he's young  
and he's kind of silly actually.  
  
  
At least I think that he _can't_ see  
(don't like thinking that he _won't_ see)  
  
  
  
Life has been become more bizarre since we entered the popular music scene  
It's all very new and bizarre but I like it, we all like it. Flake maybe doesn't but that's Flake's charm.  
It gets to the soul though  
It got to Richard   
But that's okay because he has us, all of us, to get him through.  
  
He works hard. It's admirable. But he can rest around us  
He just doesn't because he's still learning to balance work and relaxation.  
  
[ _Wir sind die Roboter,_ happiness in slavery.]  
  
I try to cheer him up.  
I'm the cheerful one of the group.  
half the time he likes it  
  
half the time he wants to strangle me.  
I got bruises to prove it.  
  
  
But they're like lovebites too I guess.  
Paul ought to be helping Richard  
We're best friends  
I'm going to help him until whatever-it-is stops making him look dead and stops making his fingers bleed and stops giving him bruises and  
  
  
  
giving them to me too.  
  
  
  
So whenever he pushes away my cooking  
Or steals all my cigarettes  
Or pulls me away from a girl who I'm just looking (at)  
Or bruises me lest I forget (our nights)  
  
I feel sorry for him.  
  
  
  
  
  
I really do.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
What he's doing isn't healthy  
You look at his gaunt eyes and ashen cheeks  
at his thin body at his blistered fingers  
and tell me that he's healthy.  
  
Go on, try  
Go on, lie.  
  
He's not. Don't tell me he's fine because he's not  
Nobody knows that better than I do because  
I know him well I love him.  
  
  
  
  
Pretend that it's a talkshow on mute  
He is murmuring in my ear and the creaking of the bed drowns him out  
And I think to myself ~~what a wonderful world~~ , he loves me ~~he loves me not~~.  
  
  
The fire burns down the house  
Except it's not _that_ literal.  
  
I am consumed with flames that I cannot feel nor extinguish  
  
Angry ~~bitemarks~~ burns standing out on my neck  
Sure is terrifying to look at though. But I endure.  
What would it make of me if I couldn't endure?  
I'm older and more responsible  
Well not the oldest (that's Till) but older than most  
And I've got the duty to look after him.  
  
It's what friends ~~/lovers~~ do.  
Don't you agree?  
  
He's alive  
Richard is alive he's hanging on  
When I rest my head on his chest I hear his heart beating strong and that is enough. He won't die, I won't let him die, I won't let him fade away.  
  
So I smile  
because it keeps us all going  
So I smile  
because Richard will see me someday  
So I smile  
because I can just see him smiling back  
So I give him meals  
Tuck him in  
Smile  
And hope that one day he'll be happy again  
handsome again  
beautiful and live-loving and creating again  
  
Like he was when life was young and chaste.  
  
  
  
  
And only then can I breathe in  
exhale  
cry  
laugh  
  
And then become Paul Landers again  
the littlest Rammstein  
the eternal charmer, the sweet smiling  
spirited sunshine  
  
  
  
  
And I tell you.  
Nothing is more relieving than being.  
  
  
....  
  
  
just wish he'd understand  
i know he doesn't  
but i won't give up.  
  
  
  
[-atishoo, atishoo, we all **fall down.** ]  
  
  
  
  
  
...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
i like to cook.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
.

**Author's Note:**

> Joke aside. This is precisely why I don't do poems, because I am **fucking terrible at them**. Might scrap later, only consider this complete because I couldn't make it any better. Ought to have though. Sorry guys I didn't even know what I was doing. Please tear this one apart, the last poem I wrote was when I was thirteen and that sucked too, this one is no exception.
> 
> This achieved two things for me: this is my adaptation of Du Hast, and that this is the only way that I see Paul/Richard. Haters gonna hate.
> 
> Oh and a third thing, never do horror because I am horrible at horror  
> I hope you enjoyed and fully understood even if you did not


End file.
